


Everything Uncertain

by Jenwryn



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-21
Updated: 2010-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's been hurt before.</p><p>[Future fic, uses legend!canon about his and Gwen's relationship.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Uncertain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ca_te](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ca_te).



> This is for [Cate](http://ca-te.livejournal.com), because a little birdie told me that tomorrow is her birthday. You are such a wonderful friend, sweetheart; thank you for always being there for me. I'm sorry this story is so random and moody, and probably not very good, but it was written amongst reports and research papers, and you know how that can be – basically, I just really wanted to write something for you. ♥
> 
> Unbeta'd, probably OOC.

Curl of the air at the curtains, and Merlin's face catches the sunlight at his cheekbones.

Arthur rolls onto his side, to look at him the better. The wizard's attention is so clearly upon the book he's reading, that Arthur doesn't even bother to hide the affection he knows must be showing on his face. Not that Arthur's scared of it, of course, more that— well, yes. He is scared of it. Scared of the feelings that roll inside of him, at the sight of one of Merlin's shoulders, peeping bare from the sheets. At the sound of Merlin humming vaguely to himself, the way that he does, when he's buried in some fictional world born from ink and vellum. Hell, at the very thought of Merlin's existence, really. Merlin has this effect on him; always has, probably.

Sometimes, Arthur wonders how things might have been, had he only realised this a good many years earlier. Sometimes, Arthur thinks it's kind of besides the point.

After all, it's the thought, the thought of the reality of it, of Merlin here, with him – off in his own world, yes, but inarguably, indubitably, here with him—

It rolls inside of Arthur; the hope, and the fight against it.

Arthur knows most everything else that he needs to know. He knows how to rule, how to help, how to be gentle or strong – still knows how to best a man with a sword, too. He doesn't know about this, though. Is, in fact, painfully, acutely, aware of his failings in this field; he's had a woman reveal them.

It makes Arthur hate it, just a little bit, though he'd never use the word himself.

Merlin turns a page. A lock of hair slips across his ear, dark against pale.

Arthur had thought he could fight it. Fight the hope. And hope is all it is, of course. You don't become king, even if you're born to it, by living a life laced with presumptions and things-taken-for-granted. Hope, though, he has. Arthur's been spoon-fed hope, in balance with pragmatism, for so long, that he probably couldn't avoid it anymore, even if he wanted to.

But he doesn't _know_.

He does know how Merlin looks at him. He does know that Merlin has saved his life a hundred times over. He does know that Merlin lays by his side, shares his bed, of his own free choosing. But courtesans have looked at Arthur like that, and knights have saved Arthur's life, and Arthur knows what it means to have the adoration of men and maids alike – because he's king, because he has the right to it, and because he's earnt it, with blood and tears and the slant of his blade.

But now—

But now Merlin is watching him, blue eyes sharp and his book resting gently against his chest.

Arthur hadn't even seen him move, hadn't even heard him, he'd been so lost in the labyrinth of his own mind.

"You can't ever know for sure," Merlin whispers, as if he can read Arthur's thoughts – or as if he'd plucked the conversation, entirely randomly, from the thin of the air; you can never tell, with Merlin. The wizard sets the book further afield. His shoulders are soft in the early light. "People always say you can, obviously. They tell stories of their marriages, of their mistresses, of loyal souls and lost heroes. They tell of the ones who know that their hearts are connected, over time and space, like a miracle, certain of the faith of their troth, even at the end of everything. They tell of unions that last an eternity, and not even a fight over a burnt meal. Those are the stories people tell. But they're only stories. You can't ever know for sure, how things are going to end up. You can't read someone else's heart."

Arthur closes his eyes, and tries not to see Gwen behind his lashes. He doesn't blame her. He still loves her, in some shape or shade. But he doesn't blame her.

Merlin's hair is brushing against Arthur's forehead. Merlin's breath is warm against Arthur's skin. "You can't," Merlin is whispering. "And it hurts, and you hate it. The uncertainty. The waiting, for something to go wrong. The knowledge that the only thing you can be completely sure of is the pain, the agony, if it were to all fall apart."

The words are harsh, but there is no harshness in Merlin's hands, in Merlin's touch. The wizard pulls back a little, studies Arthur again, and now there's a smile on Merlin's face – a proper, tentative, beautiful Merlin-smile, and Arthur's own lips respond in kind before he's even chosen that they should.

"I could promise that nothing is going to go wrong, Arthur. Promise that I'm not going to go anywhere, that I'm always going to be here. I could say all of things, would, will, if you want. But you've heard them before. And it doesn't matter either way; those words, they're only noise, in the space of the hours and the days and the weeks. And I get it. I really do get it. The fear, that the thing you want most, could be the thing to betray you. But I care about you anyway."

Arthur's insides ache, and hurt, but they sing as well. He shivers, and he's pretty sure that he can't even remember how to move his arms without feeling self-conscious of every inch of them, as if this love – yes, love; whether he wants it or nay, it's been here for years without his permission – has turned his skin sensitive to the very air around it. It's almost choking him, this, this here, this look on Merlin's face. And Arthur still doubts, because Arthur always doubts, doubts just as much as he hopes, because that's how he knows he's still questioning what is good and right and just – but Arthur doesn't mind, not so much, not so much at all, not now that it's been spoken. Not now that it's been uttered, made real, made solid in the light of day.

That the future is obscured.

That things won't be perfect.

That maybe, just maybe, it isn't important.

Arthur think he should stand up and get dressed, should find some air to clear his head. He thinks he should end the moment before it gets the better of him.

Instead, he quirks a little smile, and rests his face against Merlin's shoulder. "And so where does that leave us," he asks, "oh supposedly wise and wizardly one?"

Merlin huffs; a huff that turns into a kiss against Arthur's face. "How about I let you know when we get there?"

Arthur pulls Merlin back down against the bed, honest and warm against him, and knows that he can live with that.


End file.
